


When the Storm Comes

by TCRegan



Series: The Outside World [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke visits Solivitus in the Gallows during a thunderstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Storm Comes

**Author's Note:**

> The response to the kink meme prompt (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10749.html?thread=42845437#t42845437) was supposed to be a one off, but I couldn't get these two out of my head. Now this thing has gone and developed a plot of sorts.

Anyone would have noticed that it was going to rain, but Hawke picked a day he knew it would storm. He left his companions behind yet again for the Gallows. And why not? He deserved a break from the daily buzz of life, of running errands and fetching things and helping those who begged him for assistance. And while he enjoyed the company of his friends, sometimes a rowdy night at the Hanged Man just wasn't what he was looking for.

The storm hit with a crack of thunder, the skies over Kirkwall opening in a deluge of torrential downpour. Templars shouted in the courtyard, ordering the merchants to move faster, corralling the Tranquil and the mages back into the Gallows to get out of the rain. A templar recruit approached him, pulling him out of the rain and under an overhang.

"It's a hell of a storm, Champion. I'm afraid the Knight-Captain has docked all the boats for now including the ferry. You'll have to stay here."

Hawke tried not to grin. "I'm sure I'll survive a night in the Gallows. Point me to where I can find some dry clothes?"

The recruit seemed relieved that Hawke didn't want to argue the fact, and brought him inside. Hawke had only ever seen Templar Hall; the rest of the place was built much the same. The Gallows, first erected as a prison in ancient Tevinter times, certainly felt like one. Long narrow corridors of cells. Only the bars had been replaced by doors. Mage quarters. How horrible it must have been to be confined to a small cell.

"The laundry is just down the hall, Champion. One of the Tranquil will get you a set of robes and see you to a common room to wait out the storm."

"Thank you," Hawke said graciously, watching the recruit turn and hurry off to attend to his own clothing.

He stepped into the laundry room, looking around at the long, low tables piled high with linens, the iron tubs of water and washing boards. He started to unbutton his coat when the door shut and someone stepped up behind him, pressing their lips to his earlobe.

"Allow me," Sol purred.

Hawke dropped his hands, letting those skilled fingers take over, parting the fabric of Hawke's coat, then pulling up the hem of his linen tunic. He shivered as Sol dragged his fingernails across his stomach, and wriggled as they ghosted his sides.

Sol chuckled in his ear. "Ticklish."

"Am not," Hawke protested. He tried to turn for a kiss, but Sol kept him in place.

"You were told to change out of your wet clothes," Sol said quietly, driving him mad with just a few simple touches, lips brushing his neck.

Hawke relented, giving in and allowing Sol to remove his coat and tunic. He leaned back against soft robes, breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded. A warm mouth kissed down his neck, over his shoulder, and Hawke felt the press of Sol's cock through his robes against the small of his back. He wanted this as much as Hawke did. They'd put it off for some time, enjoying private kisses behind the Gallows in the middle of the night or near the break of day. Neither wanted to rush this.

"Will anyone come in?" Hawke asked, hissing as Sol's fingers found his nipples, tweaking them.

"No. The Tranquil do laundry every other day. This is an off day."

"Lucky us." Hawke tried to turn again, but Sol held him in place. "Sol, please, I want to touch you."

"This is for you, Garrett," he said gently, hands stopping at his hips.

"Mm. Why?"

"Because you give me pleasure all the time. It's my turn now."

Hawke groaned as teeth grazed long his neck, stopping at his shoulder. Sol kissed the bite mark before latching on again, sucking hard. Hawke felt it, jolts of pleasure shooting straight toward his core. His knees quivered and Sol wrapped his arms around his middle, holding him up.

"I don't," Hawke breathed. "I don't do anything."

"You bring me flowers and herbs and tell me stories."

Sol nudged him forward and Hawke walked, coming to stop in front of a table covered in white linens. His hands drifted down, brushing the front of Hawke's pants, barely touching the bulge there. Hawke whined with need, thrusting his hips. Normally aggressive, taking charge in everything, he became compliant in the older man's embrace, wriggling against him, wanting more but willing to wait.

"Lean forward," Sol urged, pushing him down. "There you go."

Hawke bent forward, resting his arms and head on top of the sheets and blankets. They smelled fresh, though in desperate need of ironing and folding. He caught the scent of elfroot and nettles and something fruitier like strawberries perhaps. But the thought of what soap the Tranquil used fled his mind as Sol began to work the ties on his pants, parting them, sliding one hand inside.

"Oh, Maker, yes," Hawke whispered.

Sol chuckled. "You're so very eager. It's a nice boost to the ego of an old man."

"Not… old," Hawke managed, gasping as Sol's fingers wrapped around his cock and gave a loving squeeze. "Experienced."

"Oh? How experienced do you think I am?"

"Please…" Hawke begged, trying to thrust into that warm hand.

Sol dragged the fingertips of his free hand down Hawke's back, tracing scars, stopping momentarily to kiss a few, to trace one with his tongue. He released Hawke's cock, causing him to moan in frustration, and pushed his hand lower, cupping his sac, very gently squeezing it.

"You're torturing me."

"I like the noises you're making," Sol admitted. "But answer my question."

"I… I don't know. Very?"

"You flatter me."

As Sol spoke he resumed stroking, slowly pulling Hawke's pants and smalls down, letting them pool at his ankles. He pulled out a small container from his robes and balanced it on the small of Hawke's back. Hawke shivered as the cool glass settled against his skin.

"This is what I made from the last batch of roots you brought me," Sol said, unscrewing the lid.

Hawke smelled the blue flower Sol had sent him to the Wounded Coast for, but couldn’t remember the name. It was something… something blush. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was Sol. "Oh… ff… Sol," he moaned as two fingers pressed between his cheeks, teasing outside his hole.

"Tell me how it feels. Like you were describing the world outside the Gallows. I do enjoy your voice, Garrett."

"Oh, Maker," Hawke whispered. "It's warm. And your fingers, I love your fingers. They're long and thin and always stained with – oh, oh…"

Sol started to push one of those fingers inside, and Hawke pressed against the linens, cock buried in the soft sheets. Sol pulled him back, free hand wrapping around him now, starting to stroke as he pressed his finger further inside.

"Keep talking," Sol whispered, leaning down to kiss along his back.

"I love it, just us together. The way you kiss me. How you look at me. I dream about your hands, how you kiss me. When I'm lying in b-bed," Hawke faltered, gripping a pillow case.

Sol pushed his long, slicked index finger inside and started to thrust. Hawke leaned down further, wanting more.

"Tell me what you do when you think about me." Sol's voice was husky now, no longer light and cheerful like usual.

"T-touch myself."

"Mm. Like this?" Sol asked, stroking him, squeezing him from base to tip, thumb smearing precome over the head.

"Yesss," Hawke hissed. "Maker, Sol, more. Please."

"What do you want?"

Hawke was pushing back, trying to fuck himself on Sol's finger. "Fuck me."

"You're so crude, Garrett. When you describe the trees and the flowers and the countryside, it's like poetry. Where's that poetry now?"

Hawke bit back the sarcasm that threatened to spill forth. "I want… I want your hands, your perfect hands on me, stroking me, touching me. I want you to take my hips and fill me with your cock." He gasped as Sol added a second finger and pushed back instinctively. "I want you to take me slowly while you talk to me about your potions. I want to hear your voice, hear it when you come inside me with my name on your lips."

"Do you like it when I use your name?" Sol asked.

"Yes," Hawke admitted.

No one called him by his first name. Even when he was younger, he was, 'Little Hawke' or 'Malcolm's Boy'. Now it was 'Hawke' or 'Champion' or 'Fereldan.' Solivitus, he used his name.

"Tell me why you want this from me."

Hawke buried his face in the linens. Sol stopped stroking him, hand now on his back, the other still thrusting slowly, circling, stretching him. His cock begged for attention and he tried not to whimper. He muttered something.

"A bit louder," Sol urged.

"Because," Hawke said, turning his head to the side. "Because," he panted. "I love seeing you smile when I come to see you. I love that you –" he broke off as Sol thrust faster now, his hips canting back to meet them. "That you laugh at my jokes."

Sol chuckled, the sound going straight to Hawke's cock. He removed his fingers and Hawke whined, taking a half-step back toward Sol, who gave his ass a gentle, loving squeeze.

"Patience. You young folk are always so eager to hurry through it."

"'M not that young," Hawke muttered.

"Young enough."

There was a rustling of fabric, a belt being undone, the soft noise of clothing dropping to the floor. Hawke felt Sol's hand against the small of his back, and gave an appreciative moan as a thick cock was pressed to his ass. He wriggled impatiently.

"I can't imagine you're a virgin," Sol said wonderingly.

Hawke was panting, rubbing himself against Sol's erection, wanting it inside him. "Whu?" he managed. "Sol, please."

"I would be flattered to be your first, though."

"Sol!" Hawke whined.

"Tell me," Sol whispered, leaning down, kissing his shoulder blade.

"…yes."

Not for lack of opportunity. Hawke had been with several women, none of which satisfied him more than his hand. None of which could make him feel as Sol did, even though until now all they'd done was share several dozen kisses.

"I'm sorry it's in a laundry room," Sol said quietly.

"Don't care," Hawke murmured. "Could be in a garbage heap. It's perfect because it's you."

"I'll make it good for you. I'm only sorry I can't use magic without the templars finding out… such wonderful things you can do with magic in this position…"

Hawke couldn't respond. Sol was pushing into him now, agonizingly slowly. He felt the pressure, the burning, Sol adding more of the sweet-smelling oil to ease his passage. He took several deep breaths, clutching the sheets, biting down until he felt the head of Sol's cock inside him. A hand came up to Hawke's forehead, brushing sweaty locks of hair from his face.

"Tell me how it feels," Sol said, his breathing quicker, uneven.

"So good," Hawke muttered. "So full. So good. I want more. Sol, please."

He bit down to keep from crying out. He didn't want Sol to stop, to think he was in pain. And when he was buried, Hawke felt him deep inside. Strong fingers holding his hips, keeping him in place. A bit more oil was added.

"Garrett," Sol said quietly, his voice heavy with lust. "I have to move."

Hawke nodded quickly.

And Sol moved.

Hawke managed to stay still for just a few seconds before he was thrusting back to meet Sol's rhythm, hugging the sheets closely to his chest, keeping his face buried. And when he thought he couldn't take anymore, Sol pressed forward, touching something inside him that sent him reeling, his body tensing up with pleasure and he didn't want it to stop.

"Oh there, please Sol… Maker… fuck! There more, more!" 

Sol leaned over him, one hand sliding up over his shoulder, down his arm, entwining their fingers. Hawke felt sweat-slicked skin as Sol's chest pressed against his back, felt his tongue at the shell of his ear. The sound of flesh against flesh as Sol took him faster. He reached down with his free hand to find Sol's, both wrapping around his erection to stroke.

"Sol," he whispered. "Sol."

"Garrett."

"Love you."

There was a pause in the movement before Sol sped up, Hawke surrendering now, close to his peak. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he saw bursts of white and red, and spilled over his own hand and Sol's, his cry muffled by the laundry. He barely heard Sol's quick panting, but felt it when the man came, pulling out at the last second, over the back of his thighs. Hawke's knees buckled, but Sol was there to hold him up, and after a moment, he could stand on his own, leaning heavily against the table.

He straightened, picking up the pillowcase he'd been gripping, and wiped himself off before looking at Sol.

"Maker… you're gorgeous," he breathed.

Sol was naked, robes discarded on the floor, the thin slippers kicked off to the side. He was tall and pale, a slight dusting of freckles over his shoulders with sparse hair on his chest that was the deepest red. He was soft in the places where Hawke was muscular, with a slight belly. A line of darker red hair trailed from his navel downward, and Hawke's eyes strayed to the perfect cock that had just brought him to orgasm. Hawke wanted to kiss him all over, to lick the sweat from his skin. He felt his arousal stirring again and blushed, wondering if they would go again before the night was over.

But Sol wasn't looking at him.

"Sol?"

Solivitus picked up his robes and pulled them on, casting about for his belt before leaning over, wincing at a twinge in his back as he did so.

"What is it?"

"Garrett… perhaps this has gone too far."

"What?" Hawke's heart nearly stopped. "What are you… you can't fuck me like that and say all those things and then drop that on me."

"…Garrett, pull up your pants, son."

Blushing angrily, Hawke yanked up his smalls and pants, and grabbed his shirt and coat from Sol, who'd retrieved them from the floor. "Tell me why."

Sol smiled softly at him. He was wiping his hands on a washcloth, and when he was finished, took that and the pillowcase and tossed them both in a bucket of water. He paused, looking at the floor a moment, gathering his thoughts. When he raised his eyes finally, Hawke thought he looked exhausted.

"I'm a mage of the Circle. I can entertain the notion that someone as… incredible as you is interested in me. Why, I've asked myself. But it doesn't matter. Perhaps you like balding old men with cricks in their backs. Everyone has a type after all."

"I don't think about that, Sol," Hawke insisted. "You're special to me."

"And you to me, Garrett. Let me finish."

Hawke crossed his arms, leaned against the table, then stood up straight, still sore.

"Perhaps it just slipped out because you felt good and didn't actually mean it."

"I…" What did he say? He didn't remember. It was difficult to think.

Sol smiled sadly and stepped close, leaning in to brush his lips to Hawke's. "I don't blame you for not understanding. You've never been chained, and I would never wish that upon you. But falling in love brings naught but pain, my young friend."

Hawke frowned. He'd said it. He'd meant it. "I don't care. I don't even care if you don't say it back. Just… Sol, you're… one of the best things to come into my life."

There was a wry chuckle. "I'm sorry you've had such a hard life."

"I didn't mean it like – Maker's breath, Sol, please."

"The storm is almost over. You should take the boat back."

There was a finality to Sol's tone, and Hawke knew somehow that arguing was useless. He buttoned up his coat, walked to the door and stopped. When he spoke, his tone was no louder than a whisper, and he couldn't quite face him.

"I don't care that you're older than me. Or in the Circle. Or anything. I won't stop coming to see you. Even if you don't want to continue… this."

He waited to see if Sol would answer him, tell him not to, or apologize. There was nothing. He glanced back, and Sol was standing, arms crossed, not meeting his eye. Hawke nodded to himself.

"I'll bring you more of the Harlot's Blush next week."

It was ironic and cruel, the thought, as he left the laundry room and hurried toward the courtyard, that he finally remembered the name of the flower.


End file.
